


The Smell of Smoke

by tepidblood



Series: The Smell of Smoke: Collection [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body horror themes, Depression Themes, Dissociation themes, I'll add more when the fic starts picking up., Multi, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidblood/pseuds/tepidblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke." -- <em>Vincent Van Gogh</em><br/>They were all wisps of smoke, smoldering in the crater of a great firestorm, and cradling the embers to start a new blaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got sucked into OW hell and I really regret nothing. I'm writing this with heavy inspiration from a friend and I hope to update it weekly. That's why the chapters are so small orz.

The silence is uneasy. It was a fake sort of silence, one that creeps in when your ears were still ringing, and sits hard against your skull. The throbbing pain in his head wasn't helping either. That was a concussion, at least, and a cracked skull at worst; it wasn't something that would kill him though. If he had anything left in his stomach he might have tossed it to the ground, but his body feels empty and _dry_. He doesn't have anything to give.

There is a phantom pain in his left arm, and it bothers him. He tries to flex his fingers, tries to do a self check, but he can't. There's no fingers to flex, no arm to bend, and just-- _nothing_. Eyes open, searching for an answer, but there is none. There is a great big **nothing** in front of him, cool sensations washing over him, and a bundle of heat sticking out harshly against his senses. It's a mouse; he senses a mouse. It darts into the open, pauses, and he barely flinches as the warmth of the owl descends upon it with a swift, tiny _snap_. He heard mouse bones break. He had heard mouse bones break from over twenty meters away.

That should bother him more than it did.

The heat of the owl wisps away, the noise of its soft wings so faint he can't hear it from this distance, and that is comforting. It was the most comforting thing in the span of the ten minutes it takes him to remember how to use his legs and try to stand. The area around him is cool, with very little noticeable heat. There are a few little bodies of mice, and a vole, but it was muted. The world was quiet and cool, which would have been nice, if he didn't feel so shriveled up and _cold_. He had gotten to a tree somehow, though he doesn't remember walking there. Or crawling, or running; or **anything**. He remembers the bomb touching his severed arm and then… this.

He wants to toss his lunch again, but the urge is mild compared to the dryness in his throat. He exhales, hard, trying to find _something_ inside of him; even a little blood would soothe the dry ache. He gets something else though, cold and almost… _slimy_ in texture coating his lips. The world goes a bit cooler in front of his face when he does it. He does it again, morbidly fascinated with whatever is coming out of his mouth, but it's not helpful. The coolness is there, the slimy texture coating his teeth, but it's not… liquid. It's not something he can figure out until he drives his shoulder into the tree for support and lifts his hand to his lips. Fingertips feel rough against his skin, his _cold_ skin, and cooler breath. He doesn't know if he can understand what it feels like to breath **cold** smoke out of his lungs; he just doesn't.

There is a hoot, on his four, about fifty meters away. There is a car driving up a road nearby; he can hear it, but he can't pinpoint it. The noise echoes oddly, warbling across the field (or backyard, he doesn't know for sure), and sitting in his ears. It sits, sinks in, and dies. The noise _dies_ in his head, the throbbing settling as he continues to breathe smoke into his palm, and the silence creeps back in on him. So much silence; too much silence. The hoot is now on his six, the owl was moving, and he feels the heat of another mouse. It was about to die; he could feel it.

Fragile bones crack under sharp talons and gracefully spread wings.

He must have fallen asleep there, or dissociated, because he comes to with a sense of **warmth**. Not in him, no, but around him. The area he was in had warmed up, even if marginally, and he supposes that means it's day. The tree he leans against respirates and releases oxygen, even as he clogs up the leaves with his smoke. The smoke tumbling out of his lungs is still cool, but it no longer feels slimy. He doesn't want to admit that it feels that way because he had already gotten used to the sensation. He doesn't have to admit anything.

He only has to be aware of car doors slamming shut, on his two-thirty, and that there are two very warm people coming his way. Not coming _for_ him, he doesn't think, but they're there. He doesn't know if they can see him, but he knows they're there. There is one larger and one smaller, the smaller one ran hotter, and smelled richer. One of them was wearing some sort of perfume, or cologne, and it stinks. It was sour against his nose, striking him badly, and he growls. Their stride falters a moment, one of them saying something, but they don't stop. They keep on walking towards him.

They're talking about something mundane, judging by their tone. What they're saying doesn't make sense to him, for some reason, and it isn't until _much_ later that he realizes why. He waits until they're closer, which he tells himself is because he was trying to understand what they were saying. He doesn't understand it though. It isn't until that he steps over two cold, **dry** bodies that he leaves behind him in the shade of the tree that he understands. He walks away from them and catches a breeze, the remains the only mark of his presence; of his belated comprehension.

He had been too feral at that point to understand **human** language.

* * *

 

Talon hadn't been much of an operation when Blackwatch had first started. It had barely been a speck on his radar, just a few heads pressed together that all shared the same fucked up ideology, and not a lot else between them. Now was different though. Now is where Talon had _bases_ and soldiers, all trained to act ruthless, and most trained to be expendable. He had watched them, perched in the dark, as they shot civilians and soldiers alike in the backs, their tactics dirty, but their style lacking. They had noticed him, somehow, and had gone after him. He wonders if it was because they were after him in particular, or if it was the shared hit that he had just spread the brains of all over the bathroom floor. He had left a pile of them in his wake, with the lone survivor left on top, just so he could wake up to a bed of cold corpses. They hadn't sent any more soldiers after that.

What he gets is an agent.

There's bodies scattered everywhere this time, which was mostly his doing. Not all of it though, considering some of them still had their head intact, even as blood and brains poured sluggishly out of blistered, garish exit holes. The gun that was used to make those shots had to pack a pretty nice punch, especially for one he hadn't _heard_. He steps over the bodies, their warmth squelching under his boots, and moves on. Vultures encroaching on his chaos was none of his concern; they could pick at the listless meat all they wanted.

He does hear the sound of a heeled boot on his seven-thirty, three stories up, on a roof top; fifty meters away. He can't feel warmth though, not a true warmth of a human sniper, or the mechanical warmth of an omnic either. He paused, head turning, and hears the click of a heel again. The click comes from his twelve-thirty this time. Huh. It had been awhile since he's walked into a trap.

He ignores the sniper for now, still there most probably, but not on the move. He focuses on the clicking steps coming closer, blatantly obvious, and inherently _casual_. He crooks a finger, dragging the sharp tip of a talon along the outside of his thigh. He has one rifle reformed and reloaded in his palm by the time he turns his head back around and sees the one who walked with those sharp clicks. They were shorter than he had been expecting.

" **Guten Abend.** " The German stills his hand, as does the level calmness in the voice that rolls gently through the space between them. The trap setter was armed, but relaxed. They move just a bit closer, out of the density of the shadows cast by decaying buildings, and into the ugly yellow of a dying fluorescent lamp. " **Sehr erfreut.** " He would profile them, if he could see more than long black hair, a red visor and black mask, and the coiling lines of active cybernetics sticking out from under black clothes. Lips twist and he exhales a stream of mist, his voice warbling as he returns what _knows_ is pleasantries.

" ** _Hola._** "

The sigh of breath from the agent is _classic_ , even if it was reserved, and muffled under their mask. The gun at the agent's side lifts momentarily as they shift, the straps cinched around their thigh that had been hidden by their coat exposed as the material is brushed back, and the gun whistles as it compacts itself and slides into its holster. That was an unwarranted signal of trust. " **It is good to finally meet you in person, _Gabriel_.** " A **very** unwarranted signal of trust. His rifle is up in a heartbeat, held level and trigger sighing under his finger, before it jerks to the side. He can't hear the shot, but he can feel it, and his rifle smokes from where the majority of its barrel had been blasted off. He understands why the agent seemed so relaxed now: the sniper.

" **I don't go by that name.** " No, not anymore. Not while his rifle clatters to the ground, dropped carelessly in front of him, and turns into smoke. Not as he sucks the smoke back in, making note of how the agent had pronounced his name _correctly_ , and how 'romantic' their accent was. It was almost as if they hadn't been rolling heavy German off at him just a minute before.

" **I'm aware. You prefer Reaper now, yes?** " They're smart, they have him profiled, and he had walked straight into it; he wants to give them a round of applause. He gives them a _harmless_ spread of his claws instead. They tilt their head, to the right, and seem to take it as an affirmative. " **I was under the impression you were fluent in English.** " The twist of his lips is changing into a smile. A shame they couldn't see it: the mask hides his fangs a bit too well.

" **I am.** "

" **Then use it.** "

They're reaching into their jacket now, for what he thinks is another gun, until he's proven wrong. Gloved hands toss forward a cannister that barely rolls once it hits the ground, the design of it too heavy to be a gas can, and too pretty to be a bomb. The device clicks as it rights itself and activates, the same red glow traveling the limbs of the agent before him creeping up the device's sides, and tinging the preliminary projection it displays before him. It was loading its database, which makes him _laugh_ ; can't Talon afford anything better? The agent steps forward, unphased, and he hears the echo of their heel click from the rooftop. It seems Talon could afford _just_ enough.

" **I would _hate_ to disappoint you--** " The agent is flicking in a command, there's lists that scroll by too fast for him to catch, and then-- a map. A map with information about _him_.

" **Then don't.** " There is a hiss as the mask the agent wears releases seals, slots becoming apparent as a hand reaches up, and removes the visor. The yellow light does a good job of ruining how pretty burgundy colored eyes might have been, or how flawless the agent's skin seemed to be, but that was fine. He sees **white** and has enough answers. " **I'm not here to pose as a moral compass.** "

The map is enlarging, the scale of it global, and the projection expanding to ensure every little pinging marker is displayed. It's a scattered collection of his hits, lethal and non-lethal, from the past four years. It's comprehensive, concise, and the agent taps the latest marker to zoom in on it: he can see a picture of them from satellite. It's  _hilarious_. " **Then what are you here for? To fulfill a _deathwish?_** " His voice drops and rumbles, **growling** out of chest in full timbre, and he takes a step forward. The chill of the blast that takes out a chunk of his mask startles him, even if he masks it under a snarl. The sniper had changed vantage points, but he still couldn't see them, or feel them. Smoke billows from his mouth and the mask stitches itself back together, as if nothing had happened at all. The agent has the rigor to look as if they were bored; it's admiral.

" **If you would stop playing stupid you would know.** "

* * *

 

" **Winston; it's time to wake up.** "

Athena's voice was not pointedly loud, meaning he hadn't slept through too many of its morning prompts, but it was close. Yellow eyes are slow to blink open and slower to focus on the monitor that had jutted itself out closer to him. It's rare for Athena to mobilize any of the equipment in the base, much less independently without his convincing. There is data on the screen, but his eyes aren't focused enough yet, and his glasses were-- " **Athena, where are my glasses?** "

The lab was still in disarray sadly. The main lighting fixture on the main floor had been ruined and still laid crumpled on the ground. There were blood stains on the concrete (he had been sure they would have sealed the concrete…), but all the bodies had been removed. All the bodies he could have removed, at least. There was a black mark on the concrete that he had covered, just from _unease_ , and he had left it alone. He might put a cabinet over it, just to keep avoiding it. He wouldn't place the tea kettle there though.

The kettle lets out a cheery whistle just before he can reach it, hissing and bubbling as the water gurgles through the spout and into his cup. He drinks his tea plain still, even after years of Lena's attempts to 'educate' him on tea. The tea bag's tag dangles out of the mug, barely brushing along the top of the desk as he moves to Athena's main console, and reaches for another banana. He was running low on food again; he would need to stock up. He needed to stock up, needed to clean up, needed to reinforce Athena's security protocols; he needed to… do so much. The banana is just on the cusp of too green when he bites into it and he reaches for the peanut butter next.

" **What was it you were trying to show me Athena?** " The A.I. barely hums as the screens flicker between images and data is compiled and cached. The first thing that pops up is the list of known, live agents of the original Overwatch. He had watched the list dwindle for six years; he exits out of it with the tap of a toe against his keyboard. The next thing that pops up is the list of potential agents. Some of the names had changed color, confirmations and declinations scattering through the data that Athena scrolls for him, and he barely keeps up. " **Slow down Athena, I can't read that fast.** "

" **You don't need to.** " The main screen shifts as the global map comes into focus, all the markers of agents, potential and otherwise, scattered across the world pinging to life; one by one. Red meant a decline of call, green meant a confirmation, yellow was a delayed response, and purple was-- " **Dr. Ziegler has refused to answer any of the calls directed at her.** "

" **What?** " He's leaning closer, eyes narrowing, before he gives up. The glasses, left neat on his desk like always, clear things up significantly. His nose wrinkles as they slide into place, tickling his face momentarily, but the feeling passes. He can read the logs of denied calls, the pattern that arouse that was obviously avoidant, and finally the block message:

> `Do not contact me again.`

" **Do you know what this is about Athena?** "

" **I wish I did Winston.** "

The A.I. was silent, giving him time to process what had just been placed in front of him, and he's only pulled out of his reverie by something… _sticky_. The banana had neatly been mashed in his hand, the accident adding to the list of things he would have to clean up, and he sighs. He swallows his pride and licks up the mess, eying the purple marker, and the data log. It didn't make sense. _Why couldn't they all be like Lena?_

" **Encrypt a call, switch to voice profiles.** " The A.I. pauses, almost as if it was taken aback, but precedes. The call rings, for three minutes too long, and finally connects. It was almost silent on the other end of the line, just the hum of a ventilation system that buzzed from the other end of the line. He hears something sharp and metallic, like tools being clicked together, and it stops. The sigh is the first sign of life from the other end of the line, and _so_ familiar.

" **I told you to stop attempting to contact me Athena.** "

" **This isn't Athena.** " He grumbles, letting his voice rumble, and he doesn't get an instant rebuttal. In fact… he doesn't get anything at all. The metallic clicking had stopped at least. " **Do you remember me Dr. Ziegler?** " They could start with the basics first.

" **Please don't ask me pointless questions.** " She sounded tired, **angry** , but not quite. Angela's anger had always been one that sat on a back burning, bubbling over long before you noticed it too late, because it was finally exploding. The clicking picks up for a moment, something sliding into place, and a hiss of cybernetics filling the static white noise on the call. " **Do you really intend to do this? To reform Overwatch?** "

He doesn't stop the roll of his eyes, the tire he was sat in groaning as he leans forward, and adjusts his glasses. " **'Don't ask me pointless questions.'** "

" **Don't be patronizing.** " Yes; she was definitely angry underneath all that tired. There is a secondary sound on the call, the sound of skin brushing over medical paper, and the groan of something that was _not_ the doctor. She says something, not to him, and in German; he only makes out the muttered response of _'null'_.

" **I have one condition.** " Athena's logo pops up on a secondary screen, an indication that it was listening as intently as he was, and a notepad opens up underneath that as well. Conditions could be good, or tricky, and Angela has the upper hand on him. She has funding, where he-- doesn't. He has a trashed lab, an out of use Watchpoint, and an unsecured call of a call to arms that could get them arrested. " **Name it.** "

" **If I rejoin Overwatch you must accept one of my patients as an agent as well. He is a competent fighter and tactician, but despite what he says, he needs _my_ attention more than once every few months.** " There is another secondary sound on the call, a soft sounding grunt, and the dots were starting to connect themselves.

" **You trust him?** "

" **With my life.** "

" **...Very well. I will need information on him--** " He's stopped by Athena's logo suddenly flicking away, data streaming in on the secondary screen, and nearly startling him. There was video footage, fuzzy and grainy, and news reports. He had seen these news reports before… He had seen this all before.

" **His call name is Soldier 76.**


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all _catawampus._  
>  Emotophobia cw/Vomit cw/Depression Themes cw in this Chapter

It starts with a letter. A letter that is manilla and plain, sealed carefully, and handed to him personally. The letter hadn't been sent through the courier, or passed through several hands. It had come by him getting pinned in a hall, still damp from a shower, and stared down by a soldier with the sharpest green eyes. His fingers had still been damp when he took the letter, his hair three shades darker while wet, and sticking to his hand after his salute. The soldier hadn't look impressed; he didn't blame them. He left fingerprints all over the letter, wrinkled stains of water dotting the envelope and pages within, and the letter sits open on his quarter's desk. He doesn't take it with him. He doesn't need to.

He's memorized every line.

It starts with the formalities, with salutes and straight shoulders and backs, and sharp green eyes looking over him again. There are other things, words that are important, but not noteworthy. He has a good memory, but it's not editic. The letter was memorized because he reread it too many times, the sharp of the pages burned into the corners of his mind, and the clean, crisply printed text marching like perfect soldiers across his memory. He was a 'perfect' candidate, so said the General, but not the letter. The letter was much more modest, polite, and completely impersonal. Now it's being sold to him, hands clasping at him, and a _son_ nearly spilling from one Five-Star's lips. It's surreal; it's everything his Pa warned him about. That's why he smiles and takes an outstretched hand. " **I would be honored.** "

Humble boys make for shitty patients though. He's hacking, coughing, and he's left a dent in the wall where he slammed his fist against it. The serum that they had injected in him today was extra strong, or _something_ , because getting kicked in the head by a bull was starting to seem like a better alternative than this. Anything seemed like a better alternative than this. He eyes the IV, his eyes red from tears, and his mouth warm and slick with blood, and _thinks_.

" **Hey, Boyscout.** "

The voice makes him look away from the IV, startling him, but not enough to cut through the bleariness of **everything** that the serum was making him feel. It was one of the other soldiers that was part of the program, Captain Reyes, if his mind was working right. He's on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall, and looking just fine. He's instantly envious, in a flash flurry of emotion that gurgles up his throat with more blood and bile. He's got enough sense left to turn his head and let the liquid fall into the bucket that a nurse had snuck him not too long ago. He can see his teeth floating in the bucket.

" **Sir.** " It's more of a slur than an acknowledgement, or greeting, but it's all he has in him. He shifts, moving a bit closer to the wall, so he can rest his head against it while looking back at Reyes. The man was smiling, but not like he had when they first had met. The man had snuck up on him, commenting on the farm game he had been playing on his tablet, and they had joked. Reyes had been happy then, now? Jack couldn't get a read on him. Part of him didn't care what Reyes felt like right now. He scolds that selfish part of himself.

" **At ease.** " He has that joking tone of his voice at least, though it seems more subdued. He walks with a strange little hitch, one that Jack had noticed before, but it seemed more pronounced now. Either that or his perception was fucked; it wouldn't surprise him either way. His superior moves smoothly, hitch and all, and quickly. It's too quick for his head to keep up, seconds blurring as another wave of nausea threatens to crash on top of him, and his eyes focusing seemingly long after Reyes had sat down. He was sitting down, on the floor, with him. It's the most comical thing since Wily Coyote.

" **You're full of surprises.** "

Reyes' laugh is full of body, and deep, and cut short. It's not all he had in him, he can tell, and he focuses. He pushes past the nausea, the ache and throb, and focuses; he's going to kick himself later for triggering his migraine. He'll pat himself on the back after that for noticing white bandages sticking out from rumpled sleeves ( _he had never seen the Captain out of a hoodie or sweatshirt yet to date_ ), their taped edges bright against dark skin, and mottled scars. There; he noticed it. He also noticed the way nausea refuses to dim down and he heaves mostly blood into the bucket.

The touch of a rag against his face is jarring. Not because it was a rough touch, or that the fabric was too rough (thanks to the injections he's been able to feel things in a way he never has before; he's not sure if he likes it), but that it was unexpected. Partially because he was coated in snot, tears, bile and blood; partially because it was his superior that was wiping at his face. " ** _Qué desastre…_ Easy there Boyscout.** " The cloth disappears for a moment, rung out evidently, and it's back. It's mostly smearing the blood now, but at least it wasn't trickling down his chin now. He forces himself to focus on the man, blue eyes meeting dark brown, and a brow quirks at him; he knows there's a smile underneath it, instinctively. " **Got something to say Morrison?** " The rag is dropped next to the bucket, a fresh one being dirtied between Reyes' bare hands, and he gurgles a laugh. The nausea behaves and doesn't overcome him this time.

" **Remind me to thank you when I'm not out of my head.** " He smiles a bloody smile while Reyes laughs, closes his eyes from the sound, and wakes up four hours later; Reyes was gone.

* * *

" **You're going to have to be careful Lena.** " Oh boy, there he goes again, with the _voice_. The voicy voice. The voice that means ' _Lena you need to sit still and pay attention for once_ '. She was paying attention though! Even as eyes roamed the makeshift lab that Winston had evidently built from scraps of this and that. There was a lot to look at in here: like that! What was that doohickey? She would ask but-- uhu, had she missed something? Gold eyes are staring her down again. She giggles and Winston rolls his eyes.

" **Aw luv, you know I'm always careful.** " Winston actually stops what he was doing for that one, placing the Chronal Accelerator down on the table, and setting the doohickey he was using to tinker with it down. Oh. Right. Bandaged hands raise in a passive gesture and she offers him the most, almost sincere, apologetic smile she can offer. He snorts and rolls his eyes again. " **Don' be like that luv; I will be, I promise!** "

" **That's what you said _last_ month.** " Last month had been a little different though! Last month there had been a near _coup d'état_ back in London! She couldn't have just sat about, twiddling her thumbs while pipe bombs flew, and people got hurt. She couldn't hold still as it was, but when people were in danger? There was no way she could be idle. No way at all.

That's why this was killing her.

**. . .**

A long time ago Winston had told her that if she learned how, she might be able to coil her time up tightly enough to take off the Chronal Accelerator. It hadn't taken her long to learn how! Long enough that she got sick of sponge baths and washing her hair in a basin, sure, but! She had learned how. She had gathered up the wit and courage and slipped the little bugger right off her chest. She had held it in her hands for a full five seconds without going transparent. It had been amazing! She also lost form in the sixth second and had to rescued by a well timed time stabilization blast from Winston, but details! She had done it! She had felt so accomplished!

Now she could take the device off for five hours and feel nothing at all.

Things got a little wonky sometimes, without the device on, like how she'd phase right through her cuppa trying to grab at it or how she might just blink from one end of her apartment to the other. Well, maybe the last one is just her not paying attention; her apartment wasn't that big. She could take the device off, lay it on the counter, and take a shower. She could take a nice long one, singing until the neighbors pounded on walls and floors, and all the hot water had gone down the drain. She didn't have to worry about drying out the device while blowing her hair dry or getting hair spray on it either. It was real handy! Sorta.

She didn't dare sleep without it though. The weightless, empty feeling of being incorporeal lingered like a phantom in her brain, reminding her of all the nasty bad things she didn't like to remember. Like being in someone's house, with someone speaking french to her, and a piano playing in the background. She would curl up on her side, the device tucked comfy around her chest, and cushion herself with a big, plushy pillow. The device whirs familiarly, lulling her off, and keeping her in a place where those thoughts can't reach her. The neighbor that plays piano late in the night always seemed to have a different idea though, as the notes rang through her open window, and into her dreams.

She can't see who is playing the piano, but she knows they are beautiful. That _she_ is beautiful. She has long hair and stunning eyes and the most graceful way of carrying herself. She likes her tea sweetened with honey and without honey, which was definitely strange, but so like her. The woman was so distinct, an outline in the fuzziness of the room around her, and a voice that melted into the notes of the piano. She was playing something awful melancholy today; it seemed as if she was sad. She wants to say something, to break the mood and make light of something mundane, but the words are stuck in her throat. The woman with her normally rosy cheeks had turned all cold and blue, her lips drawn into a tight little bow, and her eyes shining like flood lights. She was blinded by it, just like normal, even as the kiss the woman leaves on her face chills her right down to the bone. She wakes with the phantom kiss on her skin and the same, stubborn words stuck in her throat: ' _ne me quitte pas._

**. . .**

It's sunny, for once, in Brixton. All the clouds had gathered themselves up and rolled on out, but not before making everything oily and slick. Her window was cracked open, like normal, and she could hear birds chirping. She could hear a few of the cars honking as people woke up, running about and grabbing at things, for the work day would begin soon. She could smell the bakery from a few blocks over open their door and release the good smells into the air, as if to lure out the late risers, or the late for work-ers. Everybody was all rush rush rush! Everything was rush rush rush! The birds twittered and perched right outside the open window, looking into the muted apartment with an interest only animals could have, trying to find the bird that makes the most mechanical of beeps.

The comm that sits on her side table has been chirping at her for a solid five minutes now. She's got her back to it, ignoring it as she touches the empty sheets aside her, and ignores how her kettle pops and hisses in a matter-of-fact way. There were so many things telling her to get up, to get going; to get into the _rush rush rush_ of the day! Like the news playing on the tele in the room over, droning on about new shootings, and new casualties. Like the neighbor's radio, wheezing about new terrorist threats, and this and that. It was all so _rush **rush** ~~rush~~_.

The comm beeps as the connection is finally forced, a familiar voice crackling over the line, and warping due to poor connection. Huh; she wonders why there's a poor connection? " **Lena, you've removed your Chronal Accelerator for over five hours; you're in danger of losing your place in time again.** " Athena's voice is always so crisp and clear to the point, well, usually. It seems sluggish now, drawn out and accented in a way that doesn't make any plain sense, and she's tempted to swat at the comm to try to fix it. She doesn't really want to stop looking at the pattern of her duvet through the transparency of her hand though.

" **Lena? Lena!** " It sounds right distressed now, like a mum trying to get their kid to respond after falling out of the tree; she'd done that once. She got a nasty bump on her head and a bag of peas shoved against her scalp, all while her mum fretted over her, and lectured her between wiping away her young tears. That had been a while ago: a few years? Right? It had been before the Omnic Crisis, before Jetstream, before-- " **Lena I'm losing your bio-signature-- Agent Tracer!** " Before Tracer existed; yeah.

" **I hear you luv.** " Except she doesn't, because she's got the device back on her chest, and her hands are solid against the duvet. She'd gotten up and closed the window, blocking out the sun, and drowning out the noise of the birds. Her kettle hisses and pops still, her tele had been changed to a channel full of cartoons, and she answers the comm on its first ringing beep. " **G'mornin' luv.** " Athena doesn't reply for a long moment, which makes her think she might have dreamed it all, but-- that would have been silly.

" **Goodmorning Lena; it's nice to have you back in time.** "

* * *

If there's just one thing he can say for sure he regrets, it's not coming out this way sooner.

He had chalked a lot of Jack's talk up to plain ol' hyperbole, for there was _no_ way there could be endless fields of gold, and pretty green things. He's from Houston, where the humidity dripped off you like lukewarm shower water, and the tallest trees maybe got up to his hip. Here though, well-- there ain't many trees, but there's more than enough crops to make up for it all. The Hypertrain had woven through the fields like a diamond back through the water, making him awful uncomfortable the whole way through, and more so once he had popped off the top and sashayed away. The place just too damn idyllic for him to trust it.

Jack hadn't been lying though: the place was real darn pretty. There was enough fresh air to throw his withering lungs into a fit if he hadn't been smoking the moment he could scrape his lighter out of one of his pockets. His saddle bag hits his ass like it's got a fucking plot of revenge against him, but that ain't new. His spurs had been wrapped up all nice this time, so he wouldn't get a gouge in his new pack. The leather was real high dollar in this one, smellin' of great tan and care, and stitched with care; so obviously not of his own design it was pretty damn comical. It made him look like a fool, a plain ol' cowboy fanatic, with his boots and hat too. It was a pretty good cover. People don't even think once about those stuck in the past comin' to look at a statue meant to symbolize _the good ol' days_.

" **Y'er taller than I remember pardner.** " He's joshing himself, talking to a carved block of stone, but hey: no harm no foul. No one else was about at the moment, it being too far into the heat of the day for the tourists to want to mill about, and the son was doing its damned best to bake whoever decided to not stay inside. It was a real familiar feeling, the heat baking at the little slip of neck the shade of his head doesn't cover, and adding back to the tan he had almost sort of lost the last few months. He's been a bit too underground to get the gold ol' sun color back in his skin; he'll have to work on that. He takes a drag, pulls the cigar out of his mouth, and taps it against his pinky. Hot ash falls on metal and he doesn't miss the feeling of the familiar burn.

" **Hey!** " That sure is a bright ol' voice right there: directed right at him. He tilts his head aside, away from the regal pose of a memorialized deadman, and looks dead on into a pair of the prettiest darn blue eyes. Well shit; he's _really_ feelin' nostalgic now. " **Don't flick your ash around like that; this ain't your smoky trash bin.** " Well isn't this one a sure spitfire? She's got hair as gold as all those waving, pretty fields, and eyes bluer than the damn sky. She's also got a frown on her face that makes him remember his friend's ma and her cast iron pan; he can't help but laugh.

" **Sorry 'bout that lil' lady; don't see no smokin' signs posted though.** "

" **Well tough tomatoes _Cowboy_ ; this ain't some city attraction.**"

He admits defeat before he can get a _real_ tongue lashing, the blondie frowning at him as he grinds his cigar against the concrete underfoot, and scuffs the ash up with his boot. There, he gave it a lick and a promise, and even put his cigar away. Not that she seemed impressed about it or nothin'; she had moved away from him. She was real close and personal with the monument now, standing right in front of it, and touching the plaque that was anchored on its base. You know… come to think of it-- " **You look an awful lot like John here.** "

He's moseying over now, immune to the sharp little glare being tossed over a dainty shoulder at him, and standing close-- but not too close. Calling Morrison by his first name was a great page out of the _weird_ book, but y'know; times change. Jack wouldn't have minded much, other than maybe laughing at him, and callin' him some weird sorta thing. It seems the little miss minds more though, her glare luke warm now as she looks back at the plaque, and touches the name that has been raised against it. " **He's my brother; 'course I do.** " Now she's turning back towards him, eyes so pretty blue and hair so blond it makes that nostalgic part of him throb again. Jack had looked at him with that frown before, back when he was a newbie, and not as easily cowed by the curve of angrily pouted lips. Now it's obvious why she seems so damn familiar; last time he'd seen anything of her was a picture, crinkled and folded and showing a gaggle of blonde girls all clustered around Jack and smiling.

Well fuck.

The whistle is out of his lips before he can help, low and bordering on incredulous, and the miss cocks an eyebrow at him none too kindly. He'd be nettled if he had more thoughts to work with, but she did a right good job of lassoing him up and making him trip onto his face. He takes his hat off with care, squinting as the light suddenly flashes over his eyes, and holds it close to his chest. She seemed awful young, the damn baby face gene in the Morrison family aside, which meant… " **Y'er Helen ain't'cha?** " At least that got her to stop frowning.

" **How do you know my name?** "

" **Lucky guess.** " He's lying with a smile now, the hat shoved back up on his head, and the cigar reappearing out of his pocket. She's frowning at him real good again, her hand plastered over her family name on the plaque, the shadow of the statue's salute just about to cover them both. He's wasted enough time here; he thinks. The lighter flashes and flames, clearing the clean air right out of his lungs again as the cigar puffs and smokes, and he's nothing more than a posing wannabe once more.

" **It was real nice, ah, _shottin' the breeze_ wit'cha missy, but this vaquero's gotta get a movin'.** " He's on the fast track out, moving away as tourists start to file in, and moving himself into the crowd. He's lucky it's not just woman and kids together, the height of fathers and misguided male military fans was enough to cover him. Even if he could hear and sometimes sorta see Helen's gold hair popping up as she tried to weave on through the crowd; he can even hear her yell at him to _wait_. She ain't fast enough, bless her heart; he does rightly feel for her. Just about as much as the guilt he feels for a good right portion of all of _this_. He can hear his comm beeping in his saddle bag, the little wisps of clouds running like broncos due south, and it all stacks up. He's got seventy-six problems and this was just another one.

He pauses, at the crest of steps, and shoots back a wave at the blond stuck in front of a confused gaggle of moms and excited kids; " **tell y'er Ma _thanks_ for all the brownies she used to send.** "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> `" **At the time of the Overwatch Recall, McCree was in the American Midwest, near Indiana or Kentucky.** "` \-- [source](http://overwatch.wikia.com/wiki/McCree#Story)  
> What are you saying Blizzard, huh? Huh, huh, huh?


End file.
